


Cherry Pie

by ironstarker



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Crying, Dark, Dark Tony Stark, Hurt Peter Parker, Innocent Peter Parker, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Touching, Restraints, Serial Killer!Tony Stark, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22072732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironstarker/pseuds/ironstarker
Summary: Freshly escaped convict Tony Stark stumbles across a cute boy, huddled around a mug of hot chocolate, in a diner. What choice does he have other than to take the boy back to his motel room? Poor Peter wakes to find himself tied to a bed with a mass murderer hovering over him, and it doesn't take long for Stark to tell the boy what he wants.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 20
Kudos: 338





	1. What a Convict Wants

He was groggy when he awoke, eyes struggling to regain focus. The muscles in his arms and legs ached, but when Peter tried to move a hand down to rub a painful cramp in his thigh, he realized his arms were bound by the wrists. Panic flooded his system, the adrenaline rush snapping him to attention. He took in his surroundings, struggling against the large, plastic zip ties that held his wrists against a bedpost. The room was dark, the only light filtering in through a window. He could see heavy snow falling outside, so thick and furious that it appeared as though a blizzard had stirred up overnight. Peter lifted his head to look down his body, stifling a whimper when he realized he had been stripped down to his boxers. His legs were bound with handcuffs, and when Peter tried flexing his foot he could hear the cuffs rattling against the feet of the bed where they were attached. His body relaxed back against the sheets and he huffed out a breath against a cloth gag in his mouth.

Peter didn’t understand what was happening. One moment he’d been about to deliver Mr. Watts his newspaper, and the next instant he’d felt the cold snow on his face as he hit the ground, his body going limp. It had felt like he’d been drugged, but he knew that he hadn’t been. Had someone hit him? Peter’s eyes rolled up towards his forehead, but he had no way of knowing if he’d been struck or not. But someone else was there, because they had taken him to a seedy motel and tied him to the bed. Peter’s heart began to race as he struggled against the ties, feeling them cutting into the skin of his wrists. He had to get out.

Amidst his struggling, Peter heard the creak of the door and saw a strip of light appear along the wall. His heart began beating wildly in his chest, his body stilling as fear took hold. Brown eyes went wide as a figure came into the room, tall and as dark as night. The man kept his back to Peter, and Peter watched in silent horror as the man shrugged off an oversized wool coat, flakes of snow melting into its shoulders. The coat revealed a white cotton shirt, and the frame of an adult man. The man brought his hand to his hair, ruffling brown locks to tease the snow away. Fingers carded back through the locks, smoothing them in place. Peter gasped, and the man turned his head a fraction, revealing a sharp, freshly trimmed goatee and flat, dark eyes.

“You’re awake.”

It wasn’t a question. Peter trembled on the bed, his words sticking in his throat. He recognized the man that had come into the room. It was Anthony Stark, serial killer wanted by the state of New York for atrocities committed in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens. Peter heard the sound of a shopping bag rustling, dropping to the floor with a dull thud. Peter wondered what Stark had purchased. He felt sweat beading at his brow, his body suddenly spurned into action by sheer terror. He made muffled screams against the cloth gag, his body heaving this way and that against the restraints. Stark watched, unmoved in the dark.

“Valiant effort, kid, but you’re not getting away so easily. You’ve got some puny arms, and those zip ties aren’t going to break that way.”

Peter choked against the gag, tears springing to his eyes driven by panic. The man clucked his tongue in disappointment, going around the right side of the bed. He stopped by Peter’s head, leaning over him, reaching his hand out to brush away a stray tear that escaped Peter’s eyes. Peter whimpered in the back of his throat, cringing away from the touch. What was going to happen to him? Had the man purchased a knife? Would he stab him to death, would he hack him up and throw him in the bottom of the Hudson Bay? It made Peter’s stomach churn. He squeezed his eyes shut, terrified to look the man in the eye. He didn’t want to see death staring down at him.

“This is always my favorite part,” Stark mused, and Peter felt the bed dip as the man sat next to him. Peter tried squirming away, but he couldn’t. “You’ve realized it haven’t you, Peter? That you’re not getting away from me.”

And just like that, ice flushed through Peter’s body, his weight sagging against the bed as his struggle ended. More tears slipped out of his eyes and Tony shushed him, wiping away the tears with a calloused thumb. “Don’t scream, pretty boy,” Stark commanded, his hand moving to the gag in Peter’s mouth, “if you do, I’ll hurt you. You don’t want me to hurt you, do you?”

Peter forced his eyes open, shaking his head once. Satisfied, the murderer pulled away the gag and tossed it aside on the bed. Spit dripped from the corner of Peter’s mouth, and his tongue darted out to wipe it away. Stark watched him all the while, his eyes black as night, his expression impassive. “W-what do you want?” Peter croaked. The question was all he could think of. He was just a high schooler, a boy who had dreams bigger than his wallet. He wanted no part in Stark’s game, and he didn’t want to die. He was too young to die, but little did he know, Anthony Stark agreed with that. He had no intention of murdering the boy strapped to the bed.

“That’s a loaded question, Pete,” Stark chirped, getting off the bed. Peter relaxed, turning his head to follow Stark as he moved around the room. He picked the sack of goods back up and set it on a chair near the bed. Peter couldn’t make out what was in the bag because the room was so dark. “I want a lot of things.”

Peter wet his lips again, questions firing one after another in his mind. His lips parted to form words, but they faltered. “Wh-how long have I been here?”

Stark paused, seemingly to consider the question. Peter watched his arm move to his chin, his hand stroking the goatee. “About seventeen hours. I shouldn’t have hit you so hard, but I didn’t want you to disturb those poor fellows you were delivering the paper to.”

Peter did the math in his head. Aunt May would know by now that he was missing. It was close to midnight (if not after), and he hadn’t been to school that day. Another chill went through him, an even worse thought in his head. For the moment, he was safe — it seemed Stark had no intention of hurting him, save for the initial head trauma. “Where are we?”

Stark smiled in the dark, the snow whirring outside carrying the light to reflect a gleam off his teeth. Peter shivered. “Don’t get too curious, Peter. It’s a good way to get yourself hurt.”

Peter’s lips snapped shut, another tremble wracking his body. Being in the presence of a man like Anthony Stark terrified him. It was like being trapped in a cage with a tiger, and Peter didn’t know when he was going to pounce. He also didn’t know what would happen when he did. What if Stark planned on torturing him, and leaving him near death until someone found him? He’d been known to do that to victims, or so Peter thought. The facts of all the cases were blurring together now in Peter’s head, and he wasn’t sure what he was making up and what was real anymore. He was tied to a bed, and Stark was two feet away from him. That was the reality that he knew.

“I — Mr. Stark, I don’t have a lot of money. I’m not worth anything to anyone,” Peter babbled, hoping that Stark was seeking a quick fortune to escape with. If Peter could make him realize he was more trouble than he was worth, perhaps the older man would let him go. “Let me go. Please — please, and I won’t tell anyone, Mr. Stark. I swear it.” 

“It’s cute when you beg like that,” the man murmured, a different lit to his tone that Peter didn’t recognize. He swallowed heavily, eyeing the older man from where he was lying on the bed. His neck was beginning to hurt from the angle he’d forced it into so he could see Stark. “I’m glad you know my name, Peter.” He stepped forward, shoes thudding against the carpet so loud that Peter thought he could hear the fabric scream beneath the imprint of Stark’s heel. “I normally tell people I meet to call me Tony.”

“T-Tony,” Peter sputtered, trying to get used to the name on his tongue. He’d do whatever Tony wanted, say what he wanted if it meant leaving —

“No,” Tony snapped, his expression darkening. Peter cringed, his eyes snapping shut in anticipation of pain. But nothing came, and Peter’s eyes cracked open. Tony was right up against the bed now, his knees against the mattress. “You will call me Mr. Stark, Peter. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, T — Mr. Stark.” 

Tony stood there in silence, his hands moving to the sleeves of the cotton button down he wore. Peter wondered where he’d found it, if he’d stolen it or killed someone for it. He saw no stains of red on the sleeves, and hoped it was the former. Tony rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, the fabric straining against his arm as he moved. Tony sat on the bed again, one leg folded atop the mattress, the other dangling off the side. Peter watched as the man’s hand reached out, and though Peter tried to shy away from the touch, Stark’s hand settled atop his chest, fingers splaying across his skin.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter whispered, the only sounds filling the room the roar of the snow falling outside and the blood pounding in Peter’s ears. His heart couldn’t stop racing. He was terrified, and he knew Tony knew it.

“Yes, Peter?” 

As he tried to think of something to say, Peter squeaked when Tony’s fingertips brushed over one of his nipples. The hand stilled and Peter froze, a new sort of panic welling up within him. What more did the man have in mind for him? “I — what’re you doing?” Peter breathed, screwing his eyes shut as Tony’s thumb circled over his nipple, the sensitive flesh pebbling beneath Tony’s fingers. “Mr. Stark, I don’t like this — ”

“You don’t?” Tony echoed, still drawing circles over Peter’s nipple. His eyes roamed the length of the young boy’s body, from the way his eyes were shut tight, down the line of tense muscles of his torso, to his still-covered groin, and to his toes, which were bent tight, tense as the rest of him. Tony’s hand moved down Peter’s torso, thumb swiping over a vague trail of peach fuzz that led to Peter’s checkered boxers. Peter squeaked, his entire body jerking. “What don’t you like about it?”

Peter didn’t want to look and see what Tony was doing. He didn’t want to see the look on his face, and so Peter kept his eyes shut as he felt the hand descend to the hem of his boxers, the older man’s fingers tracing along the elastic band. Peter had never done much of anything sexual outside from hurried jerks of his own cock in his bedroom. But Tony’s — Mr. Stark’s hands were so close, and the way he was talking left Peter with one conclusion: Mr. Stark was going to use him how he wanted. Peter didn’t know if he’d done that to other people, but he didn’t want it to happen to him. “I’ve never — Mr. Stark, please, I’m not — I haven’t — ” Try as he might, Peter couldn’t make the words come.

“You haven’t?” Tony prompted, his fingertips slipping beneath the band of Peter’s boxers. He felt the boy go still, even Peter’s breathing was shallow. The corners of Tony’s lips twitched into the smallest of smirks. Peter wasn’t going to escape him by making himself small, no matter how hard he tried. Tony’s fingers continued lower, feeling soft, smooth skin beneath his hand.

“I’ve never had sex, Mr. Stark,” Peter yelped, his hips jerking involuntarily as the hand closed around his soft cock. It swelled quickly as Tony began to stroke it, and Peter bit down hard on his lip to remain silent.

“Then I’ll have to take good care of you, won’t I, Peter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will probably have another chapter or two, I haven't decided yet. The tags will be updated as the story is. I also had a different first chapter prepared, one that showed Peter in the diner before Tony snatched him up (which is how Tony knows Peter's name), but I figured who needs plot when you can get right to the porn, right? Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed!


	2. Beautiful Boy

It didn’t take Peter very long to figure out what Mr. Stark had purchased at the store. In fact, it took him less than thirteen minutes to realize it. His eyes went wide as he heard Mr. Stark uncap the lube, watched him get three of his fingers slick with it. Peter squirmed on the bed, his cock still hard from where Mr. Stark had touched him. Peter had bit his lip so hard he’d made himself bleed, but he hadn’t allowed Mr. Stark the satisfaction of hearing him moan. Peter had refused, even though Mr. Stark’s hand had worked him over from base to tip, made his head weep with precum. But soon after, Mr. Stark had withdrew his hand, leaving Peter with his cock tented in the fabric of his boxers, leaking against the cloth.

“Don’t, Mr. Stark,” Peter pleaded as the convict sank back down onto the bed. Peter eyed the wet digits of Mr. Stark’s right hand, his hole clenching at the thought of what the man was about to do. “I don’t, Mr. Stark — I’ve never — ”

“There’s a first time for everything, Peter,” Stark countered, ignoring the boy’s pleas as he tugged the boxers roughly down to Peter’s thighs, the fabric catching there as his muscles strained. “Relax, or it’ll hurt more,” he warned, locking eyes with Peter. The younger boy’s body was tense beneath him, undoubtedly an involuntary response at the thought of what was to come. Stark smirked as Peter shut his eyes again, turning his head away, his teeth clamping back down on the lip that he’d already made bleed. Peter had been good, though. He’d listened to Mr. Stark. Hadn’t screamed, just as he’d promised he wouldn’t if the man took away his gag. Peter was hoping for it to end.

Stark’s fingers moved between the boy’s legs, and the muscles in Peter’s thighs fluttered as he tried to force his legs shut against the restraint of the handcuffs. Mr. Stark pressed the tip of his index finger to Peter’s little hole, watching closely as the boy’s face screwed up further, his nose crinkling. The older man chuckled, using more pressure to slide the finger inside, and Peter’s ass clenched around the unfamiliar digit. Peter made a strangled sound, then quieted, relaxing as Mr. Stark began to pump the digit in and out of him steadily. His attention moved from Peter’s face to his cock, which was hard in the cool air, beads of precum dripping down the tip and along the shaft. 

“Look at me, Peter,” he said, and Peter shook his head once, never releasing his lip from the vice grip his teeth had on it. Stark frowned, forcing another finger inside Peter much more quickly than the first, making the boy tremble and squeak, obviously not accustomed to the intrusion. “Look. At. Me,” Mr. Stark snapped, punctuating every command with a sharp thrust of his fingers. Peter forced his eyes open, looked up at his captor. “What does it feel like?”

Peter sucked in a breath, not sure what to say. He knew Mr. Stark wanted him to describe it, but Peter couldn’t think of any words that the man would enjoy. “Like — like you’re forcing your fingers inside me,” Peter croaked, tears flooding his eyes as the words registered in his brain. “I don’t like it, Mr. Stark.” 

The man made a dissatisfied noise, and Peter wondered if that hadn’t been the right answer. But then Mr. Stark’s fingers shifted, the tips stroking over an unfamiliar spot inside Peter’s ass. The boy clenched around the two fingers inside of him and gasped, his hips jerking down onto Mr. Stark’s hand of their own accord, another drop of precum sliding from the head of his cock. When Peter reluctantly rose his eyes to meet the man’s gaze again, Stark was grinning, dark and proud of his accomplishment. Peter wanted to tell him off, but Stark’s fingers were working over that spot, and Peter couldn’t think straight to find any words.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Mr. Stark cooed, working his fingers in tandem against Peter’s prostate. The boy was squirming against his hand, and though he was trying his best not to, Peter’s hips were working in a way that had him rocking his body back against Mr. Stark’s fingers. The lube made him slick, the sounds of Mr. Stark’s fingers the only thing filling the room as he worked over Peter. “God, kid. When I saw you in that shitty diner sitting there on that stool, I knew I had to have you. Know how I knew?”

There was a pause, another squelch, and Peter realized that he was meant to answer the older man. He swallowed, and said, “How?” It came out as a breathless squeak that made him flush.

Mr. Stark grinned that same, predatory grin. “You got a little bit of that cherry pie on the corner of your mouth. Right — ” Peter tensed as Tony moved over him, swiped at the right side of his mouth with the hand that wasn’t already occupied, “ — there. I took care of it for you already. Couldn’t help myself.”

Peter whimpered, the knowledge that Mr. Stark had touched him while he was unconscious making him feel impossibly more vile. 

“Oh come on, Peter. Didn’t want that fake cherry crap to stain that pretty skin of yours. I was doing you a favor.” 

Peter said nothing, and suddenly Stark’s lips twisted into a frown, and Peter yelped as a third finger was pressed inside of him. It burned and stretched his rim, made his hips arch up off the bed as his spine bowed. He whined, trying to squirm away from the fingers stuffed inside, but Stark pushed them deeper, made Peter take them.“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Stark’s words were lower now, a whisper. “I did you a favor, kid.”A lightbulb went off in Peter’s head. “Th — thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“So someone did teach you manners. Good boy.”

In a moment, the pressure inside of him eased, the third finger slipping back out. Peter relaxed, panting, against the sheets. The pressure of two of Stark’s fingers inside of him was almost pleasant now, though it left the boy disgusted with himself. His cock was drooling precum all over his stomach, his thighs quivering with the strain from having them spread so roughly by the handcuffs. Stark’s fingers crooked inside of him again, prodding at his prostate, and this time, when he pushed his ring finger back inside, Peter didn’t notice. He tightened reflexively at the burst of pleasure from where Stark prodded at his prostate, whined in such a pitiful way low in the back of his throat.

Glee was written all over Stark’s face as he heard the noise. “What did I tell you? Knew you’d enjoy it after a little bit of work. Just needed to get you nice and warmed up.”

Peter’s lips parted, soft little ah sounds leaving his lips in breathless pants as Stark’s fingers stroked over his walls. He knew that if he was properly aroused, he would’ve cum all over his stomach by now. But he was trying so desperately to hold down the orgasm that was threatening to build, because this was wrong. He shouldn’t enjoy the older man’s fingers stretching him out, nor the wet sound that they made as they pumped inside of him. Stark’s other hand had begun to move, coming to settle against the flat of Peter’s abdomen before it trailed down, over the line of his muscles and to where his cock lay, flushed pink against his skin.

“Mr. Stark — p-please,” Peter whimpered, and he didn’t know if it was to convince the man to stop or if it was to try and goad him into touching him more.

Stark seemed to take it as an invitation. His fingers wrapped around the boy’s cock, stroking him with practiced ease from tip to hilt. Peter gasped, his hips canting up into the man’s hand, his cock twitching as his balls began to tighten. 

“That’s it, baby. It’s okay, you can let go. I’ve got you, I’ll make you feel so good — ”

The boy writhing against the bed barely heard the words that the older man was saying as he chased his orgasm. Peter keened, and then the sound seemed to be stripped from his lungs as his climax struck him. His hips stuttered into Mr. Stark’s hand, and he felt the moment when he came all over his stomach. Mr. Stark angled the tip of his cock up towards his face. Peter whimpered when he felt the first rivulet of his cum hit his chin and part of his collarbone from the force of his orgasm. He rode it out using Mr. Stark’s hands, letting the man press his fingers so deep that Peter felt full as if it were his cock. His body trembled as he swallowed a few wayward gasps, and then he sagged against the bed, a thin layer of sweat building between his shoulders.

He heard the other man cluck his tongue, and Peter looked up at him, exhausted, his cock spent from where it lay abandoned against his body. Mr. Stark slid his fingers out of the boy and Peter moaned that time, squirming as his hole clenched around nothing. He knew he shouldn’t hate the empty feeling so much, but he did. He watched as Mr. Stark moved away, but the man returned soon enough from the bathroom, a rag in his hand. 

“You made such a mess, sweetheart,” Mr. Stark said. He brought the rough cloth to Peter’s face, began clearing away the cum that stained his chin. Peter said nothing, his face burning hot from embarrassment, as Mr. Stark cleaned him of his own fluids. “You were so good for me, just perfect.”

Peter peeked up from beneath his lashes, sucking a breath into his lungs. “Can — does that mean I can go?” he whispered, trying not to sound hopeful.

But Peter had never been particularly good at managing his expressions, and it must have shown in his eyes. Mr. Stark stilled his hand and his brow knitted, dark eyes narrowing as he fixated back on Peter’s face. “Go? Go where? You think I’m going to let you leave?” His tone dropped on the last word, and there was something sinister in it that made Peter shudder.

“I thought — ”

“You thought wrong. I’m not done with you. Not yet. I told you I’d take care of you, remember?” 

Peter felt another pass of the cloth over his skin. Mr. Stark’s fingers found his cock as he began to clean around his length and the boy whimpered, oversensitive. 

“Does that hurt?”

The boy wet his dry lips. “Yes.”

Instead of skipping over it like Peter had hoped, the man wrapped his fingers more firmly around Peter’s length. He inhaled sharply, gritting his teeth as the rough fabric of the cheap motel washcloth was dragged over him, wiping away the cum that stained Peter’s skin. His muscles were tense until Stark took the cloth away, and then Peter sagged back against the sheets, his head dropping heavily onto the pillow beneath him. Stark slid Peter’s boxers back into place, let the elastic band snap against the boy’s skin, earning him a yelp. Peter stared up at the ceiling, at the stupid paint swathes that every house built prior to the early 2000s seemed to have, and took the time that he was left alone to breathe. He had to get out. Peter gave a feeble tug at the zip ties that held his wrists, craned his neck so he could look at them. They didn’t give an inch, and Peter didn’t think he could use enough force from that angle to break them.

“Peter?”

He jerked his head in the direction of the bathroom, where Mr. Stark stood bathed in a pale, yellow glow. He was leaning in the doorframe, arms crossed, but Peter couldn’t make out the expression on his face. His features were too dark in the dim light.

“What’re you doing?”

He swallowed heavily as Stark made his way over, and Peter scrambled for words. “My wrists, they hurt my wrists. Can you please just untie them a little? Please, Mr. Stark? Please, I was so good — ” Peter didn’t realize his words had turned to choked sobs until after he had difficulty breathing.

Stark cooed at him and settled into the space near his head, his hip nearly pressing against Peter’s curls. “No crying, sweetheart.” 

Peter flinched when the man touched his face, but his hands smelled of soap. He must’ve washed them in the bathroom. For a moment, Peter thought the man might release his ties, but then the fabric from before was being jammed back between his teeth as the boy tried to take a ragged breath. He choked around the fabric, but Mr. Stark pushed it too deep for him to spit out. Peter made a sound, straining against the bonds. The older man’s fingers found his chest, and Peter squeaked when there was a rough pinch given to his nipple.

“Quiet,” Stark snapped, and Peter fell silent. The man’s features smoothed out in the next instant, the anger gone quick as it came. “Be good for me. I’ve got to run some errands for a few hours.” 

There was a muffled sound against the gag as Peter tried to speak, but Mr. Stark got to his feet. He tugged the curtain closed, and then went for the bathroom light, flicking it off, bathing them in darkness. Peter couldn’t see a thing, but he heard the rustle of fabric. Stark grunted, and then there was a clanking sound that had Peter simpering against his gag, fearful the man might return to the bed with something to torture him with. Tears continued leaking out of the corner of his eyes, and he gave another muffled shout as Stark swung the door open.

Illuminated, Peter could see that Stark had donned his coat, that he had a duffel slung over one shoulder. The man paused, considered something, and turned his head towards the boy. “Nobody’s gonna hear you, sweetheart.” 

He pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Peter alone, bound and gagged in the motel room, just as he’d been when Stark had returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought I’d be doing slow burn smut, but here we are. Felt pretty inspired to write this, but I’m inconsistent as fuck so here’s hoping I can get the next chapter out just as fast. As always, a massive thanks to everyone for all your support. Hope you enjoy this chapter just as much as the first!


	3. Covet

The least the bastard could’ve done before he left Peter tied to the bed was turn on the heat. The teenager was freezing, nipples pebbled, goosebumps dotting his flesh. “This sucks.” Okay, it more than sucked. He’d been knocked out, taken to a dingy motel room, had some mass murderer finger him, and now he could feel the zip ties chafing his skin. Peter had tugged on them once too many times, it seemed. His wrists were aching, and his thighs were faring no better. He hated it, but Peter was grateful that Tony — Mr. Stark — had pulled his boxers up before he’d left. At least he didn’t have to feel the lube chilling, nor his hole exposed to the air. That would’ve been the last amount of degradation he figured he could’ve handled.

Maybe not, all things considered. It could’ve been worse. The man could’ve raped him while he was at it. Peter had spent the better part of what he assumed was all night (light was beginning to filter in through the thin curtains) thinking of ways to escape, but between the handcuffs and the zip ties, his best bet was to wait until he could convince Tony to get rid of them.

Why did he keep thinking about him as Tony?

As Peter lay there, groggy, he began to wonder if this was an early onset to Stockholm syndrome. He squirmed, thrashing around on the bed in an abrupt effort to see if the ties would give. They didn’t. The teenager exhaled, his eyes falling to the checkered pattern on his boxers. At least he wasn’t in a gold bikini. At least Tony was somewhat attractive, and not a giant slug like Jabba the —

Footsteps outside the door made him still, his eyes going wide. He made a noise against the gag, sure that it would be his savior, and not —

Tony. He stepped through the door and Peter quieted immediately. A rush of cold air accompanied the man, flakes of snow swirling inside the motel room. Peter noticed that Tony hadn’t returned with his bag of tools, and he wasn’t sure whether or not he should feel relieved or more concerned. Peter choked against the gag in his efforts to get the convict’s attention, though he wasn’t sure why he thought that was even remotely a smart idea, but he fell silent when Tony turned to face him.

Even in the low light the covered window cast upon the room, Peter could see that the front of his coat was stained with blood. It was zipped open to reveal the white cotton shirt from earlier, equally stained. Peter’s eyes went wide and he squeaked, his muscles twitching in an involuntary response to get away from the man. Mr. Stark stalked towards him, and when Peter looked down he saw that the man’s hands were coated in drying blood. Peter could see where it crusted underneath his fingernails. Mr. Stark said nothing as he bent over the boy, sliding one of his dirtied hands down Peter’s chest, leaving a vague smear of blood near his nipples. Peter shivered, stared up at Stark’s face so he didn’t have to think about the blood on his skin. Maybe Jabba the Hutt would’ve been a better option after all.

“Sorry I was gone so long, sweetheart. Couldn’t help myself, had to have a little fun before the main event.” He petted Peter’s skin so reverently, smearing more blood here and there. Main event? Peter closed his eyes, wishing the gag would slip down his throat so he could choke on it, be put out of his misery. Mr. Stark frowned down at him and, almost as though he’d read Peter’s thoughts, plucked the fabric out of his mouth. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Peter said nothing, squeezed his eyes shut tighter until a sharp pain split across his cheek from where the man struck him. Peter yelped. His eyes flew open and he stared up at Mr. Stark, that same fear from earlier creeping back in and holding him like a vice. Stark’s eyes were flat, cold.

“I think you forgot your manners.”

A pink tongue darted out to wet dry lips. “Thank you, Mr. Stark,” Peter whispered, and soon averted his eyes.

Fingers bit into his skin, and Mr. Stark forced Peter to look up at him. His cheeks began to cramp from how tightly the man’s blunted nails bit into him. “You wanna try that again?” The man’s lip was curled into a sneer. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark! Thank you, sir!” Peter’s voice hitched higher, desperate to appease the man hovering over him.

Stark considered him. Peter’s cheek began to ache from where the man had struck him, but he had wisened up. He didn’t complain, and instead waited. There was silence in the room, though Peter could hear the wind rattling against the glass of the window. And then, quick as it came, the pressure on his cheeks was gone. Mr. Stark turned away from him and strode off towards the bathroom.

Peter let out a choked sob of sheer relief when the door slammed shut behind him. His body twitched on the bed, and it took a moment to register, but Peter realized he was shivering. It had nothing to do with the cold. His eyes drifted down to where he could see a smear of dry, crusted blood swiped across his chest from where Mr. Stark had touched him. Peter didn’t want to know what his face might look like. Was blood on his chin? His cheeks? Somewhere across his nose? He heard water running in the bathroom, and his muscles spasmed again. 

He didn’t know how long he waited for Stark to emerge. A few minutes, maybe more, but when the man came back, he had a rag in his hand. It was pure white and damp, Peter could see, but his focus shifted to the man holding it. Stark flipped the light on by the bedside table, casting the pair of them in an ugly, yellowish glow. He wasn’t wearing his shirt anymore, and his hair was damp like he’d wet it with his fingers. Or had he showered? How long had the man been gone? The boy was beginning to panic, the gravity of the situation settling in. He was losing all sense of time in this place, and he didn’t even realize when he was dissociating. Peter knew in the back of his mind it would be better to catalogue his surroundings, but all he could see was the washcloth.

“Got you all dirty, sweetheart,” Mr. Stark explained, his knee digging into the bed as he leaned over it and began to swab Peter’s chest. The rag was warm. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

What sort of man was Stark? It was like he had two personalities, at times. Peter couldn’t pin him down, but there again, he’d never encountered a psychopath before. That was what he was, right? Peter tried to think back to his classes in school, to the psychology elective he’d figured would look better than art. What was the difference?Peter flinched when the rag swiped over his nipples. “I — I don’t think there’s any blood there, Mr. Stark,” he whispered, and his voice sounded so meek. Moments before the man’s arrival, Peter had wanted to fight — and now, here, in his presence, he was cowering like a lamb caught in a wolf’s trap. “You need to wash up. You’ve been here all night.”

God, why did the older man sound so enamored with him? Peter didn’t want to entertain that thought. He flinched as the man began circling the cloth over his nipple, working it back up to a sensitive point. Peter bit down on his bottom lip, wasn’t sure if the coppery blood he tasted was his own or someone else’s. It made him nauseous, and he let go.The cloth was on his face next. Mr. Stark took care to wipe over his chin and on his cheeks. When he was done, Peter thought he might go, but then Stark’s lips were on his own. Peter’s eyes went wide and he made a muffled sound against the older man’s mouth, and it earned him nothing more than a sharp slap across his cheek and a warm hand grasping his throat, constricting his airway. Peter choked, the muscles in his arms tensing as he tried to free his hands to get the man off of him. Mr. Stark’s features had contorted, twisted into something animalistic. “You won’t do that again, Peter. Or I will choke the life out of you and bury you with the other fuck I murdered last night.” Peter sucked in a breath and stilled. “Please — don’t.” 

Stark’s grip relaxed, but he didn’t let go. He brought the cloth up again, dabbing at Peter’s lip with the hand that wasn’t around his throat, and it was then that the boy realized he was bleeding. Fresh blood stained the cloth, but Mr. Stark seemed to run out of patience. He tossed it aside on the bed, and the hand that was on Peter’s throat pushed up close to the junction of his neck and jaw. Peter’s head was forced back, exposing the line of his neck. He stared up at Mr. Stark with trepidation, and the man watched him in turn. His dark eyes were mesmerizing. Peter blinked up at him, holding his breath, afraid to say a word and break this little trance. 

“Let’s try that again.”

Peter didn’t have to ask to know what the older man meant. He was panicking, even if he didn’t know why. He’d already had his first kiss moments ago, thanks to Mr. Stark. But Peter felt his heartbeat tick up faster, and he held his breath as the man pressed his lips against Peter’s. The boy didn’t move at first, but then he felt calloused fingers tightening from their hold around his throat, and he relented. What else could he do? It was awkward, and Peter wasn’t sure how to kiss other than follow Stark’s lead. He didn’t have to do much before a tongue was invading his mouth, and Peter parted his lips for it, compliant. He let Stark explore to his leisure. Peter tasted the tang of his own blood on Stark’s tongue. When prompted, he responded as the older man’s tongue brushed his own. That had to be what he wanted, right? He wasn’t choking Peter anymore. That was a plus.

When the kiss was over, Mr. Stark withdrew and stared at him, dark eyes narrowed. Peter felt himself flushing. “Oh,” Mr. Stark said, sounding as though he’d just solved a differential equation. His expression shifted from scrutiny to glee. “You mean nobody’s ever tasted you, sweetheart? I’ve done it thrice now.” 

Right. Peter had forgotten that he didn’t have a clue what the older man had done to him while he’d been unconscious. His body tensed at the thought.

“I want to find out how good you really taste.”

Confusion flickered across Peter’s face. And then, the color drained away as Mr. Stark left the bed to rummage around in the bathroom. He returned with a knife, and Peter all but squealed on the bed, thrashing like a stuck pig. 

“Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark, please — I’ve been good. I’ve been so good, I’ll be good just don’t — ” Peter was wailing, but he didn’t care. The tears came so easily with the blade of Mr. Stark’s knife glinting in the dim light.

Mr. Stark reached out, pushing his palm down against Peter’s mouth. For an instant, Peter thought about biting into the meaty flesh. Stark shushed him, set the tip of the blade near Peter’s bellybutton. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Peter made a muffled sound against Stark’s hand. Wasn’t that what he’d been doing? He felt the cool blade dip down beneath the fabric of his boxers, and then there was a sharp tug and a ripping sound and the fabric was — oh no.

Somehow, the knowledge that the last barrier of protection he’d had was gone (even despite the fact that Stark had removed him of it, pulled the fabric down his thighs and fingered him earlier) felt worse than Peter’s uncertainty about what the older man planned to do. Peter felt exposed, and he squeaked when he felt the tip of the knife tracing along the line of his cock. He squeezed his eyes shut, quivering beneath Stark’s palm, and his trembling didn’t cease until the blade was abandoned with a heavy clatter onto the bedside table. Peter cracked an eye open, exhaled against Mr. Stark’s palm. The man was staring down at him, brow knitted. 

“I told you I wouldn’t hurt you.” The word came to Peter, unbidden: sociopath. That was what Mr. Stark was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get spicier! Maybe? That’s a lie. As a side-note, I normally write from Tony’s perspective so it’s weird not getting to see a lot of the “why or how” behind his actions or his comings-and-goings. Some of the things he has in his hotel room, for example, or why he went off in the middle of the night to...do things. I’m trying to limit explanations to what Peter knows because sometimes I tend to elaborate too much (like I’m probably doing right now in this blurb) so that’s that. Anyway, as always, thanks for the love and support and I hope you enjoy! I promise the next chapter will have less talking, more smutting.


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